


100 letters

by KeepGoing



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar!Ian, Dark Thoughts, Hospitalization, Ian doesn't believe mickey is dead, Ian's POV, Letters, M/M, MAJOR HURT, Mania, Mentions of Character Death, No one believes Ian, Post Season 7, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, The Gallagher's can be assholes sometimes, Triggers, a little mystery thrown in, happy ending I promise, ian's thoughts, inside Ian's head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24780790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepGoing/pseuds/KeepGoing
Summary: When Ian hears the news of Mickey's death 7 months after leaving him at the Mexican border, he goes into a bipolar episode that seems like he may never recover from. But when envelopes of money show up for him he starts to rethink the possibility that Mickey is actually gone. Unable to figure out if this is the bipolar or if Mickey is really out there, it takes the help of an unlikely family member to bring it all into focus.All you hear in your head is the last thing you remember hearing…seeing…before you locked the bathroom door. Before you laid there for days when they finally knocked the door down.You aren’t sure how long you actually laid there.All you hear…over and over like a skipping song…Everything else sounds like a garbled mess.Except…“The long 7 month long manhunt for escaped attempted murderer, Mikhailo Milkovich has come to an end tonight. Milkovich has been found in Mexico, dead, after a brutal standoff with the DEA and the drug cartel, known as El Chapo….”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 56
Kudos: 312





	1. Cause I have spent too many nights on dirty bathroom floors

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING
> 
> There is suicide attempts, severe manic and depressive episodes, mention of character death and all from the POV of Ian, who is alone inside his own head. 
> 
> This fic will be from Ian's POV and it will be choppy and sometimes a bit all over the place because its taking place INSIDE Ian's head during all this. 
> 
> I hope you give it a shot. Please tell me what you think. COMMENTS ARE LOVE.

**_Cause I have spent too many nights on dirty bathroom floors  
To find some peace and quiet right behind a wooden door _ **

“Do you hear that?” 

No one answers. You know you hear it. It echoes alongside the buzzing and static in your ears; the sound you’ve been hearing for days. You know what’s happening. You don’t care. You’ve felt pain. Sharp pain of broken bones. Dull ache of cracked ribs and black eyes. The shredding of your heart and mind by words and actions that have stayed with you all this time. Its built a home inside you; nesting under your skin like an infestation. Its what fuels you to become like this. 

Like her. 

Like what they all knew you’d end up to be. 

But not him. 

Never him. 

He never looked at you like that. He never thought you were broken. Crazy. Useless. Incapable of being saved. That was all you. You put those ideas in your own head and insisted it was him. 

But it wasn’t. He always made you feel normal. He made you feel so much. And that’s all you ever wanted. Was to feel. And every breath, every look, every pass of his body past you, every touch; bruising or gentle; made you soar with feeling. Even being in the same city as him, even when you lied and said you didn’t want him, need him, you felt him. 

People talk about religion. A higher power. Someone or something bigger than yourself. The universe. A god. Nature. Whatever. He was that for you. Bigger than yourself. Bigger than a feeling. A word. A thought. He was everything. Even when he wasn’t there, he was there. 

But where is he now? 

You can still hear it. What is that? You cant make out the sound. The other sounds are too much. Words. Music. His voice. 

_You’re under my skin man_

Nothing has ever made more sense. 

He got it. He always got it. 

You were his disease. His mania. His depression. His nightmare. His infinity. His light. His darkness. Sunrise. Sunset. The voice in his head. His doubt. His excitement. Confusion. Peace. His downfall. 

You cant remember his face anymore. His eyes, maybe, but his features? You squeeze your eyes closed so tight, hoping the darkness will wrap you up and just take you to his face. But its just splashes of light and you’re in the club again and someone who isn’t him is touching you and what is that sound???? 

You feel hands and warmth and voices that aren’t his and the sound is gone and all there is now is the sound of you screaming and you taste your own blood in your mouth and you realize there is no higher power. There is nothing grounding you in this life. 

There’s only the sickness in your head and death. 

Someone punched you. You don’t blame them. It’s the only way you stopped screaming. 

“Do you hear that?” 

You don’t hear anything anymore and its so fucking loud. 

“….locked in the bathroom.” 

God, just _shut up_. 

You’re screaming again. 

That’s better. 

White. Pale yellow. Her name tag is blue. 

You cant read. It’s the drugs. 

You say his name. She looks at someone in the room. Back at you. Her face shows…sadness. 

You scream. 

You keep you’re eyes closed for a while. 

They tell you its been weeks once you finally open them. 

They are looking at you like they’ve always done with a hint of something else. Defeat. They’ve given up. Good. 

Weeks turn into months. You feel nothing. 

Before you hated it. Now its just fine with you. 

You can finally hear again. You don’t listen to them though. They know you aren’t. After a while they stop coming. You don’t care. 

All you hear in your head is the last thing you remember hearing…seeing…before you locked the bathroom door. Before you laid there for days when they finally knocked the door down. Trevor had been away. On some youth retreat. 

You aren’t sure how long you actually laid there. 

All you hear…over and over like a skipping song… 

Everything else sounds like a garbled mess. 

Except… 

_“The long 7 month long manhunt for escaped attempted murderer, Mikahailo Milkovich has come to an end tonight. Milkovich has been found in Mexico, dead, after a brutal standoff with the DEA and the drug cartel, known as El Chapo…"_

~*~ *~*~*~

_**And now I can't stop thinking that I can't stop thinking  
That I almost gave you everything ** _

Everything is the same but nothing is the same. 

Same street. Same house with the fucked-up roof. Same broken gate. 

Same creek of the front door. 

Couch. 

Stairs. 

Smell. 

Faces. 

Concerned, fearful faces. 

You’ve been here before. 

You’ve danced this dance before. 

But that was before. 

Before everything changed. 

Before everything stopped moving. 

Before you cared. 

You don’t care anymore. 

You were asked many times in the hospital if you wanted to die. 

You answered every time, yes. 

So, they kept you there. 

You didn’t care. 

They would ask you again. 

Do you want to die? 

Yes. 

You watched as other people were allowed to go home. 

You didn’t care. 

They pleaded with you with those concerned fearful eyes. 

You didn’t care. 

Then one day they asked and you just shrugged. 

It was enough. 

And now everything in this house is the same but you’re not. 

And you don’t care. 

Her voice is soft and hesitant in your ear as she maneuvers around you. Giving you a tour of a house you grew up in but feel like a stranger in. She moves the pill bottles around on the bedside table, in order of consumption, but you’re staring at the particles of dust in the air from the broken stream of light coming in through the broken blinds of your broken home where you will live, broken. 

You don’t care. 

You motion around the room. 

Clean clothes. 

Changed the sheets. 

Mail. 

Dinner in an hour. 

You just don’t care. 

You want to tell her that. You don’t need to. She knows. 

She leaves you, the door left open just a bit, just in case. There’s no door knob. 

You know why. 

They should have just left you there. 

Committed for life. 

You wouldn’t care. 

You sit in the same position for a while, as the dust settles and the sunlight moves making new shadows on the walls. You hear things, but you don't process really anything. 

They think it’s the new drugs. 

It's not. It's you. 

Cause you don’t care enough to listen. 

You move your hand and hit something on the bed. Every move you make it slow, hard. A rubber band around a pile of letters. You know it's been months. Almost half a year actually. Your birthday came and went. 

You don’t care. 

But the pile seems abundant. 

It's odd, but not as odd as everything else. 

You pick it up, the weight foreign in your hand. The rubber band snaps off and some of the letters fall around your feet. 

Some are bills. Junk. But the majority are hand written letters; your name scrawled sloppily on the now yellowed envelope. There's a lot. 

Too many. 

You count. 

99\. 

99 letters. 

No return addresses. 

Your name. 

Single envelopes. 

You wonder if they are from Trevor. 

You haven't seen him since the last time; the last time you didn’t look at him. The last time you didn’t say a word to him. The last time he asked you if you were ever going to be ‘over this.’ 

You uttered two words that day. 

Fuck you. 

That was the last time. 

You finally open one; hands shaky from the meds. 

It should piss you off. 

It doesn’t. 

You don’t care. 

$20 bill. 

Just one $20 bill. 

And just under the seal of the envelope a picture. Black ink. Just lines and circles. No real...anything. 

You pick up the next and open it. 

And the next. 

Next. 

Next. 

Next. 

It goes on a while until there are $20 bills scattered all over your lap and the floor, white envelopes making fake snow around you. 

99\. 

$20 bills. 

$1980. 

You blink. 

Lines and circles in black ink. 

You swallow down thickness. 

You got your money back. 

Was it the last thing he ever did? 

One at a time so it couldn’t be traced? 

Because he was still trying to hide. 

Hide without you. 

Even in his fight for survival he was thinking of you. 

While you barely allowed yourself to think of him. 

You want to scream again. 

So, you do. 

~*~*~*~*

__**He said "please don't go away"  
He said "please don't go away"   
I said "it's too late" **

You wake with his name on your tongue. 

You’re alone. 

You don’t care. 

You sit up a little too fast and the letters and money are now stacked perfectly at the end of the bed. 

You count the money. 

$1980. 

You count the letters. 

99\. 

You look at each line. Each circle. Each mark on the envelopes. 

I want to believe they mean something. 

It's all in your head. 

It's all the drugs. It's your mind wishing, making shit up. 

There’s nothing here. 

It's just one last attempt at him making things right. 

One last thing. 

Last thing. 

Because he’s gone. 

You know he’s standing in the door way. You look at him. 

He looks tired. 

“Mickey’s dead.” 

He nods toward the money. “He sent that?” 

“Yeah.” 

He nods again. 

You want to scream. 

You don’t. 

You clutch the envelopes in your hand. You can't let go. Not yet. 

Not ever. 

It’s the only thing you have left. 

He comes closer, picking up one of the envelopes from the bed. 

“What’s with the doodles?” 

You shrug. 

“Hmm.” He lays it down. “Hungry?” 

You don’t answer. 

He touches your shoulder. 

You wince. 

He leaves. 

There’s no door anymore. 

_Hmm._

You sit there until the sun comes up. Touching each letter because he’s touched them. 

Mickey always did like to draw. 

It was something he never talked about. Because what did it matter, right? To him it didn’t matter if he had talent. He always knew where he would end up. 

If you had only... 

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

It's all you care about. 

“Mickey...” You whisper to nothing. 

You sleep for days. 

They can't make you do anything. 

They can't make you eat. 

They can't make you take your pills. 

They can't make you care. 

So, you don’t. 

You’re hallucinating. You know you are. 

You welcome the hysteria. It's better than reality. 

You see lines and circles behind your eyes. They dance and squirm with color. They form shapes and words and a profile of his face. You smile. You see doodles of mountains. Streets. Streams. You see him in the water with his jeans rolled up. He's calling to you. He’s happy. He’s free. 

You want to be free. 

And then you scream. 

Hands. Voices. Crying. Screaming. 

You look into your brother's eyes. You untwist your fist and the envelope falls onto the bed. 

“He’s alive.” 

He looks so tired. They all do. 

You don’t care. 

They tell you he’s not. 

You insist. You shove the envelopes practically in their faces. Proof. You know it. He’s alive. 

Just doodles they persist. 

Just giving you back your money. 

Like he should, they throw out. 

After all this time, after everything, they still think he’s shit. 

If he is, so are you. 

Maybe it’s the mania. Maybe it's your brain. Maybe it's your heart and mind finding things that aren't there. Maybe you’re just crazy. You don’t care. You have to hold on to something. 

This is something. 

This has to be something. 

You know it's something. 

It is something. 

You lay out the envelopes on your bunched-up comforter. They keep telling you to stop obsessing. It's over. He’s gone. You need to move on. 

You just keep arranging them. 

He’s trying to tell you something. 

He tries to grab them from you. 

You scream. 

It makes them leave for now. 

It's all you have. 

It's this or you kill yourself. 

You know it. 

They know it. 

So, they will leave you alone. 

For now. 

But you’ll find it. 

You’ll find him. 

You know it.


	2. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe you are just crazy. 
> 
> Maybe this is like every other time and you’re just seeing things that aren’t there. 
> 
> Like when you swore you saw him in the garden outside the hospital windows and you threw that chair into the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. This chapter is still choppy because its Ian's brain processing through his bipolar episode. 
> 
> Chapter 3 will be more normal text. 
> 
> Comnents are love!

Red.

You’ve been called it your entire life. 

The red haired Gallagher kid. The red haired boy from the Kash and Grab. The red headed one from ROTC. The red haired dancer at the Fairy Tale. 

Red. 

He used to call you Red. 

Before things got to be too much. Before you became just Ian to him. Ian, once you went nuts. Ian, when you stole his kid. Ian, when he stood in front of your house and told you he loved you for the first time. Ian, as he sighed and writhed against a boat at the docks. Ian, tattooed on his chest. 

You miss Red. 

Its funny how blood is Red too. 

~*~*~*

  
It’s the second time in a year that she’s gently pulling you inside your childhood home with that look of hope in her eyes. 

Your wrists itch. 

You don’t tell her. 

But you eat. And give half smiles as they crowd around the dinner table happy you’re home. 

Again.

You do it to shut them up. 

You do it because you don’t want them to ask. 

You do it maybe because the meds are starting to work. 

But you mostly do it because you know. 

He’s alive. 

But if they knew you still thought that they would have made you stay in there. And you cant be in there when he’s out there, somewhere, waiting for you. 

You still have the envelopes. You were scared they would find them when you were away, but you’re getting better at hiding things from them now. 

You hide a lot. 

Every night when the house is quiet and your door is locked, you sit on the floor and spread the envelopes out. You rearrange them. 

Over and over. 

Hours bleed into each other as you look for something, anything, to tell you where he is. You know this means something. It has to. 

He wouldn’t just randomly draw lines on envelopes. 

You’re not crazy. 

This is real. 

Its real. 

Its real, right?

You mindlessly itch at your wrists, picking the scabs off. 

You don’t remember doing it. 

But you did.

Maybe you are just crazy. 

Maybe this is like every other time and you’re just seeing things that aren’t there. 

Like when you swore you saw him in the garden outside the hospital windows and you threw that chair into the glass. 

That got you restraints and 30 more days. 

Blinking helps you think. 

It helps you count. 

How long has it been?

What month is it?

Is it cold out?

You can’t remember. 

You never wear a jacket anyway.

He’s been waiting for you for so long. 

You need to find him. 

You need to before you do something else. He will watch over you. He always did. Better than them. 

He could make you better. 

You can admit now that you’re fucked up. You think the meds are working. Right? 

They have to be. You’re not doing crazy shit. You aren’t depressed. 

But you are obsessed.

That’s the mania. 

Is it? Are you just crazy?

No.

No.

He’s alive. 

Mickey is alive. 

Mickey.

Mickey. 

  
~*~*~*

  
“Hey sweet face.”

Her voice is like a vice on your brain.

She’s going out. 

You don’t care. 

You’ll have the house to yourself.

More room.

You need more room.

You’ll see better.

More room. 

To see.

You move the couch. 

The table. 

More room.

99 envelopes.

Lines. 

Circles.

This way. 

No that.

WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME!!??

You didn’t realize you screamed it. 

And you didn’t realize you weren’t alone. 

He says your name and it’s the first time ever you’ve heard your brother sound…scared. 

Lip has shown weakness. Fear.

But Carl?

Never. 

“What are you doing?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. He knows. 

They all know. 

“Ian, man. Look I know this is hard. I get you like cared about Mickey and shit-“

Loved. 

You loved him.

Love him.

You tell him.

“Yeah, okay. I get it. But man, you’re scaring everyone. We just want you to be okay.”

You wonder if Carl’s ever been in love. You wouldn’t know. You two were never very close. 

You tell him you’re sorry for that. 

He rolls his eyes at you. 

“Ian, what the fuck is all this?”

Who cares, right?

They all think you’re out of your mind anyway. 

You ramble. You unload every single thought in your head. 

Mickey.

Tire irons.

Homophobic fathers.

Van kisses.

Weddings.

Broken bones.

Stolen babies.

Love. 

Bleachers.

Borders.

Death.

Money. 

Envelopes.

Drawings.

Hope.

Faith.

Red blood. 

He listens. Shows concern. Sadness. Shock. He even smiles a little when you wax poetic about the man you love. 

It’s the first time you realize that he’s heard the whole fucked up story. Everything he did. Everything you did.

And why you cant let go of the thought he might still be alive. 

He has to be alive. 

He wouldn’t just leave you. 

Like you left him. 

So many times.

You can’t do it again. 

He’s waiting for you. 

You tell your brother that. 

He kneels next to you, taking it all in. Your words. The mess of envelopes in front of you. He keeps looking at you. Looking at the wild eyes and the mania vibrating off your skin. 

“Okay, listen. I’m gonna help you. But if there’s nothin here, you gotta let this go. For real this time. You gotta take the pills and move on. Get your life back. Just accept that…he’s gone, man. And I know its gonna hurt. Its gonna hurt probably for fucking ever. But…I want my brother back. Okay?”

His words swirl in your head like a tornado; tunneling and picking up everything and throwing it around making tiny piles of destruction. But you listen.

4 eyes are better than 2. 

You nod and he starts to shuffles around the envelopes. 

You were never good at puzzles. 

Mickey should have known that. 

You used to be so good at figuring him out. 

But maybe you never really knew him at all. 

You’re both there for hours. Shuffling. Sorting. Rearranging.  
  
But all you see are lines. No matter how you arrange them all you see is chaos.

Just like you. 

“What the fuck is all this?”

More voices.

Your eyes slide shut. 

There’s no point in arguing anymore. 

They were right. There’s nothing here. 

“What’s with the map?”

You look at your older brother. 

“What?”

It’s the first thing you’ve said to him in a long time. 

“It’s a map, right?”

You stare.

A map?

You must be the biggest idiot in the world. Your brain is so manic, so fast, always looking 15 steps ahead. No wonder you couldn’t see it. 

But now you do. 

It’s not in the right order.

You need to put it in order.

You look up at your family with pleading eyes. You need help. You need help to find the truth.

To put this behind you.

Whether he is alive or not.

You just need to know.

Your sister looks...conflicted. She watches you and your brothers crawling all over the floor, putting rectangles together, over and over, here, there, right, left, up, down.  
  
It takes what seems like hours. 

“I think you’re missing one. How many do you have?”

99.

99 letters.

$1980.

$20 short of what you gave him at the border.

You’re mumbling. 

Ranting even.

“See? Right here?” He’s pointing. 

You are missing one. 

There is no way Mickey didn’t know exactly how much you gave him.

Mickey is precise. 

Especially when it comes to money and business.

Maybe that’s all this is.

A business transaction.

You’re so close. And now...it’s like the tunnel is never ending. 

There is no train coming.

There is just darkness.

They were right. 

Even if this was something, how are you supposed to-

“Here.”

She’s holding out an envelope to you. 

She looks...sad. Hurt. Pissed. Conflicted.

“It came while you were in the hospital again. I didn’t want...I couldn’t...”

You might have been a little too rough taking it out of her hand. She acts like you burned her. 

$20.

More lines.

You line it up.

To you, it's just....100 pieces of paper with lines. But he looks...you know that look.

It's his genius look when he’s figuring something out. 

He will always be the smartest person in the room.

“That’s the weirdest map I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, Mickey Milkovich is no Picasso.”

“It’s just a bunch of lines. How the hell do you see a map?”

“How do you not see a map?”

“Guys, I think this isn’t good for Ian. I think we need to-”

SHUT UP.

Silence.

Just _please_ shut up.

You can’t think. You need to think.

You don’t see a map either. 

But you trust your brother.

Please, you whisper. 

Please help me figure this out.

Please tell me this is something.

Please get me out of this hell.

Please let Mickey be alive.

He takes a picture of the mess on the floor. 

He’s typing away on his phone. 

You close your eyes.

You don’t feel real.

Maybe none of this is real. 

Red.

Everything is red.

You like Red.

He likes Red.

You can handle Red.

“Silverton, Colorado.”

You open your eyes.

“I put the picture into maps. These lines match the map of Silverton, Colorado.”

“Holy fuck.”

You were right. 

They were wrong.

Mickey’s alive.

  
~*~*~*~*

  
She’s kneeling in front of you.

They cleaned up your future and somehow you ended up in your bedroom.

Sitting.

Staring. 

Crying.

Laughing.

Planning.

She’s talking.

But you can’t hear her.

“Ian, I need you to listen to me, please.”

Worried brown eyes.

She looks so tired.

She’s always looked tired. From as far back as you can remember.

Her shoulders are so heavy.

You wonder if she has anything of her own.

You focus on her.

Kind of.

“I know this changes a lot. I know...fuck I don’t even know what is going on anymore. But I know your first instinct is to run. To him. Or where ever you think he is. And I know I really can't stop you. So, I will make you a deal. Okay?”

You stare.

“I won't try and stop you. I won't lecture you or ask you a million questions. But I need you to get healthy first. Meds, therapy. Get yourself right mentally first okay? Don’t you want to do that? What if Mickey is there? Don’t you want to be well for him? Do you really want to be like this when you see him? Don’t you want to just start fresh with him?”

She’s right. 

She’s not often right.

But she is right now. 

You nod. 

You agree. 

You can’t put him through that again.

You need to be the person he deserves.

The person you weren’t at the border. 

The person you weren’t when you didn’t give him a choice in coming out.

The person you weren’t when you didn’t understand that marrying someone was in fact saving both your lives.

You need to be the person he thinks you can be. 

Okay you tell her. 

Okay.

  
~*~*~*

  
That night instead of sharp reds, you just have dreams of soft patterns of blue.


	3. You wrote 100 letters just for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I don’t know about any Mickey, but the man your describing sounds a whole heck of a lot like Danny.”_
> 
> _“Danny?”_
> 
> _“Yeah, Danny. He drives the delivery truck. Brings shipments in from the larger outside cities. Groceries, wood, you know.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The ending. Thank you SO much for all the people who have read this and supported it, even as weird and choppy as the first 2 chapters were. I appreciate all the kind words on my depiction of bipolar and inside Ian's head. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this ending. 
> 
> As always comments are LOVE. And I love you all.

“You got enough meds?” 

You try not to show your annoyance and nod at Lip. “Yes. Picked up a 3-month supply of everything yesterday. Figure if I really am crazy and he’s not there I can just come back, you know? Or if he is there at least I have enough until I can find another doctor. There has to be shrinks there, right?” 

Lip gives you a lopsided look. “Don’t know, man. I looked it up. This town only has like 900 or something people in it. There’s like nothing there. Kinda a weird place for Mickey to be, if he is there.” 

You sit gently on the bed next to your duffle bag that you’ve been packing and unpacking, packing and unpacking over and over for the last 3 days. “This whole thing is weird.” 

“Yeah,” Lip sits down and peers into the duffle. “But it wouldn’t be you and Mickey if it wasn’t at least a little weird.” 

You smile. A real smile. Not like the forced ones you’re used to. 

It's been 5 months. 

5 months of different cocktails of medications. 5 months of deep therapy. 5 months of putting up with your families constant hovering and still wondering, even though Lip found proof that the envelopes weren’t just lines and squiggles and not you hallucinating it, that you going to bum fuck Colorado is the right thing to do. 

“What’s the worst that could happen? I go there and he’s not there? So, I just come back home.” 

Lip eyes you bringing a newly lit cigarette to his lips. “You’d be okay with that?” 

“No,” You answer truthfully. “But at least I’d know for sure. All this has to be mean something right?” 

“Hey, you never know, maybe you’ll get there and he like buried a million dollars or something for you. Now that would be a very Mickey thing to do.” 

You smirk. “Yeah, it really would.” 

“This whole put this puzzle of a map together thing so you can find me in some no name town in the mid-west is really... fucking...” 

“Sappy? Romantic? Unlike Mickey Milkovich?” 

Lip nods. 

“Yeah,” You sigh out. “I’ve been thinking that too. Now that my mind isn’t all-” You make a motion around your head, “-I can really think clearly and none of this makes any fucking sense. Like did he fake his death? How could he have done that?” 

“Honestly, I don’t put anything past a Milkovich. Those fuckers are sneaky shits.” 

“You’d know.” You grab the cigarette from his lips and take a drag. Fuck, it's been a long time. 

“It’ll be okay, man. I got a good feeling about this.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

“You’re right, I don’t.” 

You punch him in the gut as he tackles you onto the bed. 

*~*~*~* 

You’ve dreamed about him every night for 5 months. Each night it's something different. You’ve dreamed of hundreds of different scenarios. A hundred different ways you’d see him again. In the rain. In the mountains. In a diner. Walking down the street. He’d turn and see you and he’d smile; that smile that that’s only reserved for you. 

One time you even see him in the rain and he’s running toward you... 

You’re such a soft bitch sometimes. 

You’re nervous and scared. And to see him again. That'll be the easy part. Being with Mickey has always been easy. It’s the not being with him that nearly killed you so many times. And there is the chance that you go there and he’s really not there. That this whole thing was in your head and your family is placating you to make you feel better. 

You’re better than you were almost 2 years ago. You’re stable. Medicated. You eat and laugh and exercise again. But you will always have this crushing doubt in the back of your head that you’re a failure. That the people around you feel as if you are a burden. That they will always be waiting for you to crash again. That they will find you on the bathroom floor again. Weak. Hungry. Cold. Blood everywhere. 

Just like Monica. 

And you know if Mickey isn't there, it’ll kill you. It will probably set you back. Your therapist told you it might restart the whole grieving process all over again. And you know it will hurt. It will hurt forever. Carl was right about that. But you’ll have your meds. And your therapy. And your family. You’ll have setbacks, you know that. You will for the rest of your life. But you don’t feel helpless anymore. 

And even if Mickey isn't there, he helped you, in how own way, to get you here. 

Just like he helped you before. But this time you’re taking the help. This time you want to be healthy. This time, even if you don’t end up together, you’ll know what he did for you. You’ll know what he meant to you. And you know, you’ll always know, what you meant to him. 

But there’s something deep inside you, you can’t even really call it a feeling, there’s something that just makes you know he’s out there. Even all the times you were apart you could still feel Mickey. Like he was imbedded into your skin, your soul, and just him, living, even if not right next to you, calmed you in ways you’d never be able to describe to another human being. You’d know, you’d just know, if he was really gone. 

And he’s not. Mickey isn’t dead. 

He’s out there. Waiting for you. In a little town called Silverton, Colorado. 

It's been almost 2 years since you saw that new report flash across your tv screen. 

2 years is a long time. 

He might have given up by now. 

He could be gone by now; onto the next town; running. 

But you know it's your turn now to run after him. 

He’s done it enough for you. 

Enough for a lifetime. 

*~*~*~ 

They don’t follow you to the bus station. You thought maybe they would. Try and talk you out of it. Tell you once again how crazy this is. 

But they don’t. 

They just hug you in the living room, one by one and wish you luck. 

Carl tells you if anyone could make it out alive after a showdown with the cops, it would be Mickey. 

Lip tells you not to take off with the million dollars if you find it. 

Debbie tells you she’s proud of you for following your heart. 

Fiona just tells you you will always have a home. 

Liam just hugs you because he really doesn’t understand where you’re going again and why. You feel awful for what you’ve put him through. 

Its gonna take about 36 hours by bus. Then you have to take a shuttle from the bus station into Silverton. It’s the weirdest shit you’ve ever heard. It really is in the middle of nowhere. 

You sleep most of the ride. You have to change buses a few times, grab some food and just end up falling asleep again but in your dreams, you see Mickey. 

After almost 40 hours of travel, you see the ‘Welcome to Silverton’ sign and the first thing you notice, other than the quiet, are the mountains that surround the entire town. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Everything is so clean. So... quaint. Silent. 

Small roads with small stores that line the downtown. A diner on the corner with a hardware store across the street from it. Not a Starbucks or a chain restaurant in site. 

When you step off the shuttle and breath in the crisp air off the mountains you feel like you can breathe for the first time. Like every single horrible thing you have ever been through just slowly exhales out of your lungs and dissipates into the air. 

You feel...alive. Free. 

You wander for a while. There really isn't much to the town, like Lip said. There are people, but you don’t need to go around anyone on the sidewalks and people smile at you even though they can tell your new. You were afraid people here wouldn’t be too welcoming to new comers and even though people are eyeing you with curiosity, you aren't afraid. It's been so long since you haven't been afraid. 

This isn't south side. 

You feel a weird sense of safety here. 

You feel Mickey here. 

With the $2000 burning a hole in your wallet, you enter the diner knowing you will need to eat with your morning meds. Its busy but not like Chicago busy for a diner. People turn and look, the atmosphere and conversation dulling as the bell rings over the door. 

A woman behind the counter smiles at you and you sit across from her on a stool. 

“Haven't seen your face here before. New?” 

You nod. “Yeah, just came in on the shuttle.” 

“Mmm, well, welcome to Silverton. What’d you do, throw a dart at a map and figure, why not?” Her smile is warm. Her name tag says ‘Peggy.’ 

“Something like that.” 

She pours you a coffee without having to ask and dumps a few creamers next to the cup. “Hungry, honey?” 

“Very. What’s good here?” 

“Banana pancakes are the best in Colorado.” 

Banana pancakes. Mickey’s favorite. It’s a sign. 

You’re not crazy. You can't be. This feels right. 

“Sounds perfect.” 

You eat, and text Lip to let you know you made it and banter back and forth a bit before you pocket your phone and dig into the pancakes that Peggy was right about. They are the best you’ve ever had. People come and go out of the diner, eyeing you but it doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable. 

When you finish your breakfast, Peggy refills your coffee and leans on the counter. “So, spill, honey. What brings you here? You might as well tell me now. It’s a small town. I’ll find out sooner or later.” 

“I uh, I’m looking for someone.” 

“Aren't we all, honey?” She smiles. “What’s his name?” 

“I...” You sigh. “Mickey.” 

She gives you an odd look. “Honey, I know everyone in this town. We don’t have a Mickey.” 

You frown. “Oh.” 

“What’s he look like?” 

You smile, his face flashing across your brain. “On the shorter side. Maybe 5’7. Black hair, raven like. Blue eyes. Like I’m telling you, BLUE eyes. Killer smile. Tattoos.” 

She listens as you gush over this guy and realize maybe you’re saying too much too soon. What if this town isn't gay friendly? You definitely don’t see any rainbow flags anywhere. But then she smiles. Wide. 

“I don’t know about any Mickey, but the man your describing sounds a whole heck of a lot like Danny.” 

“Danny?” 

“Yeah, Danny. He drives the delivery truck. Brings shipments in from the larger outside cities. Groceries, wood, you know.” 

“Danny.” You whisper. Of course. He changed his name. Of course, he did. You’re so fucking stupid. 

“Do you know where I can find him?” 

She leans in, finally eyeing you up, like she’s trying to figure you out. “Danny is a good man. Works hard. Keeps to himself a lot, but we’ve taken to him. Hasn’t said much about what his life was like before here, but he really didn’t have to. That man wears his scars on his skin, if you know what I mean.” 

You nod. You do know. 

“You one of those scars?” 

You swallow, running your finger tip along the ridge of your now empty coffee cup. “I hope not.” 

“Mmm.” She leans back. 

“He should be down at the loading dock. If you hurry you might be able to catch him before he leaves for the day.” 

You smile at her and reach for your wallet. She touches your arm gently. “It's okay. On the house. Newbie discount. I’m sure I’ll see you again. How could our Danny ever let a man looking like you out of his sight?” 

So, she knows. She knows Mickey is gay. Does that mean he’s with someone here? You shake the thought away. 

Maybe Mickey has just finally found a safe place where he doesn’t have to hide. From anyone or anything. 

That’s all you ever wanted for him. 

“Thank you.” You whisper and give her hand a squeeze. 

“Docks 2 blocks up. You can't miss it. Right against the mountain.” 

You nod and barrel out of the diner and then you’re running. 

You’re running to him just like you should have done all those times before. 

You were right. 

He’s alive. 

He’s here. 

He sent those envelopes to tell you he was here. 

He’s waiting for you. 

You know it. 

You reach the docks and skid to a stop like some sort of cartoon character. You see a large tractor trailer truck and breathe out a sigh of relief. You aren't too late. 

You walk slowly up to it, your heart pounding. You round the corner of it and you all that breathing you were doing before, suddenly stops. 

He’s sitting on the back of the trailer, jeaned legs dangling off the edge, a cigarette settled between his lips, wafts of smoke blowing out through his nose. His hair is still as black as night and shiny and fuck it looks so soft. He’s staring up at the mountains as he smokes, eyes shimmering in the light reflecting off of them. 

He’s still so beautiful. You take it back. The mountains have nothing on him. 

He will always be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

You stand there unable to speak. Or breathe. Or move. You can't do anything but stare. 

He’s here. 

He’s alive. 

He’s safe. 

He looks...content. Happy. The years of trauma he used to wear on his features almost gone. He has laugh lines around his eyes. 

Fuck. 

Mickey. 

As soon as you open your mouth to finally say something, anything, he beats you to it. 

“The fuck took you so long?” 

His eyes meet yours as he grabs the cigarette aggressively out of his mouth with 2 fingers, his expression unreadable. 

Is he mad? 

You can feel your hands starting to tremble. 

“It took me forever to get here.” You finally whisper. 

He nods, jumping off the back of the truck. “Get in.” 

“What?” 

“Get in the truck. You can tell me all about it as we ride.” 

You smile but he doesn’t come near you. He doesn’t hug you. Or kiss you. Or barely look at you. You get it. It's been 2 years. It took you a long time. He might have moved on. He might have given up. He might have finally let you go. 

But you get in the truck and watch as his forearms flex as he grabs the handle and pulls himself up into the driver's side. Fuck. 

The engine roars to life and fuck its loud. 

He lights another cigarette and hands it to you like its old times. Like the two of you are teenagers again in the dugouts and you know you have all the time in the world. Maybe you do. 

You take it and smile at him. He doesn’t return the sentiment. 

*~*~*~* 

The roads that lead out of town around the mountains are windy and narrow but Mickey handles the huge truck with grace. You wonder how much else has changed about him since you’ve seen him last. You’re quiet, letting your presence next to him settle into his skin again. It's about 25 minutes until he finally speaks. 

“So, who figured it out?” 

“Lip.” 

He snorts. “Figures. You were always shit at puzzles.” 

“Carl helped too.” 

“That what took you so long?” 

“No. Uh...kinda tried to kill myself. Twice.” 

He glances at you, hard, and white knuckles the steering wheel. “Fuck.” 

“I saw the news on TV and I kinda...just...” 

“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I begged them to let me tell you, but I couldn’t. “ 

“Begged who?” 

He sighs. “Witness protection, Gallagher.” 

“Figured. Peggy at the diner says you go by Danny.” 

“Been called worse.” 

You swallow down so much you wanna say but you stay quiet. 

“You okay now?” 

“Yeah. Finally. Did 2 stints in the psych ward. But once Lip figured out the ‘code’”, you make air quotes and he rolls his eyes, “I got myself straight. Didn’t want to come out here just in case you were here and be all nuts.” 

“You’re not nuts, Gallagher. You got some bad news and didn’t take it well. Just didn’t know you would take it that hard.” 

You glare at him. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? Wouldn’t take it that hard? How the fuck could you think that?” 

“You did leave me at the border.” 

“I... I told you why I had to do that.” 

“Right. It's not you anymore. But low and behold here you are. You gonna spend a few days here with me and then split again when you realize you can't live in some Podunk town with your ex in witness protection because it's just not who you are anymore?” 

You open your mouth to spew out a bunch of things you know you shouldn’t say but you shut it instantly. He has every right to be mad. You did leave him at the border. For bullshit reasons. And you know he was taking a chance, yet again, to ask you out here. He isn't supposed to have anyone from his old life with him. That's the rules. You know that much. But then why? 

“Then why did you send me the map?” 

He sighs heavily and lights a cigarette. “What can I say, man. I told you. You’re under my skin. What the fuck can I do? You think I can just move on? Get a second chance at life, a good life and not think about having you in it? You think I’m gonna find some dude here in the middle of nowhere and settle down and put up a rainbow flag on the porch? I mean this town is pretty accepting considering how hick it is, but come on. I had to try. One last time. To be honest, I had pretty much settled on the idea that you either didn’t figure out the map or really had moved on.” 

“I never moved on, Mick. Even when I thought you were still alive down in Mexico. There is no moving on from you. I was just existing without you. And when I thought...” You catch your breath. “I didn’t want to live if you weren't. How’s that for not being able to move on?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don't be. I get it. It's me. It's my fucked-up brain. Even if you had made it down in Mexico, I probably would have tried to off myself at some point. It's just what happens.” 

“Not on my watch, it wouldn’t.” 

You smile and look at him. The sun spreading across his face through the windshield. The sharp edge of his jaw. The way his eyebrows raise even when he’s thinking something. “Am I on your watch now?” 

He shrugs. “You wanna be?” 

“Yeah, Mick. I wanna be.” 

“Danny.” 

“Yeah, I’m not gonna be able to do that.” 

“Too bad, tough guy. According to these fucks in town, I’m Danny Anderson. Moved here from Michigan after my parents died. Gay, quiet but somehow I fit right the fuck in here.” 

“Danny Anderson? Pffft. Yeah, no. I refuse to be Ian Anderson.” 

He whips his head and stares at you with wide eyes. “Oh, we getting married now, Gallagher? Jumpin the gun there a bit, don’t you think?” 

“Nah. Been dreaming about marrying you since I was 15.” 

“Christ, Gallagher. Can you give me a few fucking days before you propose?” 

“Sure. But a week, tops.” 

Mickey smiles, finally, a real smile that are only for you, and you reach out for his hand. He doesn’t pull away. 

*~*~*~* 

You help Mickey load the truck with supplies from the warehouses and help him unload it at the various stops like the one small grocery market and lumber yard. You notice Mickey buying a few things at the market but don't ask any questions when he throws it next to you in the rig. Mickey just rubs his nose a few times, his signature anxiety tell, and you know he’s nervous; probably just as nervous as you are; so, you let it go. 

When Mickey parks the truck back at the docs around 5pm, he turns off the engine and places his hands back at 10 and 2 on the wheel. He clears his throat. 

“I assume you didn’t check into the local motel or shit, right?” 

“Mick, I didn’t even know if you were gonna be here. I just took a bus and floated on a prayer.” 

“Danny.” He corrects. 

“Still not happening.” 

Mickey’s lips quirk up slightly. 

“We can go to my place. It's like 2 blocks up.” 

“Okay.” 

He eyes the duffle bag at your feet. “How much you got in there?” 

“Enough.” 

“Enough for what?” 

“Enough to last me.” 

“Last you how long, man?” 

You reach across the space between you and take his fingers from wheel gingerly. You bring it back into your space and kiss the faded tattoos on his knuckles. “Forever...Danny.” 

He looks at you quickly with wide eyes and a raised eyebrow. 

“Yeah, okay, tough guy.” 

*~*~*~ 

Mickey makes this chicken and pasta dish as you meander around his small one-bedroom house. Its set between a bunch of other houses on a small quaint street. Mickey tells you about the old miner that lives next door who was born and raised in this town and how his wife died last year and sometimes Mickey goes over there to do some more strenuous things that at his 86 years of age just can't seem to do anymore. 

On the other side is a young couple; 2 offspring from another older couple in town. Met and fell in love here. Almost everyone who lives in this town were grown and sprouted here. Some people come and go from time to time; people looking for something quiet, something new. Some people stay. Some people don’t. 

But everyone is welcome. Everyone is safe. 

Mickey comments on it's like the fucking FBI knew exactly what he needed. 

Mickey seems happy. And... less rough. Like there are soft worn edges where they used to cut if you reached out and touched them. 

And fuck you want to touch them. 

But you keep your distance, just running your fingertips over the spines of the books on his shelves. The softness of the cloth on his couch. The fresh paint you can still smell on the walls. The plastic of his shower curtain. You stay away from the bedroom though, even though the door is open. There are no pictures. No semblance of his former life. It makes you sad. Like Mickey isn't allowed to have anything but what he has now. 

But maybe that’s better. Maybe this is exactly what Mickey needed all along. 

Maybe you’d just fuck it up. 

Maybe you shouldn’t be here. 

You don’t talk much during dinner. Mickey just giving you bullet points on what went down from the time you left him at the border until this very second. 

Cartel. 

Approached by the DEA. 

Given a deal. 

Shit went down. 

He was in danger. 

Put in witness protection or get killed by the cartel. 

Faked his death. 

Moved to Colorado. 

Got the truck driving job. 

Bought the house. 

Made a few friends. 

That’s about it. 

“You happy?” 

He looks up at you over his forkful of pasta. 

“Yeah, sure man. I mean I’m not in jail. My fucking dad isn't trying to kill me. I got food, a roof over my head. What else is there?” 

“Love.” 

He chews aggressively, washing it down with a rather long gulp of his beer. “Yeah, well, look where that always got me.” 

You sigh heavily and push your half-eaten food away. “Do you even want me here? I feel like I’m going fucking nuts. And trust me, I’m nuts but I have no idea what the fuck is going on. Why the hell did you send me the map if you are gonna act like you don’t even want me here with you?” 

“Because!” He yells. He rubs the palms of his hands into his eyes. “FUCK!” He stands, pushing the chair loudly behind him. He grips the edge of the table, eyes closed, chin down toward his chest. “Because I’m a fucking idiot? Because I can't let you the fuck go? Because I can't think of living my life, no matter what kind of life it is, without you in it? Because I thought, for once, we’d be safe here? Because I thought maybe this time...” His voice waivers. 

“Maybe this time, what?” 

He looks up at you, eyes glassy and so fucking blue. There are no more walls. No more defenses. No more homophobic Nazi fathers. No more gay clubs and old men. No more borders. No more running from the cops. No more interfering siblings. Just...Mickey. At his rawest. 

“Maybe this time you’d choose me.” 

You're around the table in seconds. Grabbing his face in your hands and looking into those eyes that level you into a heap of ash at your feet. 

“I do choose you. I know I’m a shit. I know I fucked up so many times. I know I took you for granted. I know I pushed when I should have pulled. I know I never fully understood or tried to understand everything that’s happened to you. To us. I was selfish and mean and too young to understand fucking anything. But I am here. I am healthy. And I fucking love you. Do you hear me? I love you. And I’m in. Fuck, Mick, I am all fucking in.” 

Mickey closes his eyes and just breathes. In through his nose, out through those lips that you're just centimeters from. Lips you dream of. Lips you need. Lips you want forever. 

“It’s Danny.” He whispers. 

You brush your nose against his. “You’ll always be Mickey to me. My Mickey. I can move on from the past like you have, but I won't let go of it. I can't. It got me here. So fine, I’ll call you Danny out there. If I gotta change my name to so it makes it easier, fuck it, I will. But in here? In this house,” you brush your bottom lip against his. “In the bedroom when I’m inside you, wrapped around you,” his breath hitches. “You will be Mickey. I refuse to let that go.” 

He’s shaking and you wrap your arms around him, chest to chest, your hands sliding up and down the soft material of his t-shirt. It feels like coming home. Because let's face it. Home has always been where he is. 

And you may have finally found it. 

“I fucking love you, man. Do you get that?” He practically whimpers. 

“Yeah, Mick. I get that.” 

“I just...” He presses his forehead against your chest. He hasn’t stopped shaking. “You can't do this to me again. You can't give me hope and then take it away again. I figured after 2 years you weren't coming. And I had finally started to like...get it. It fucking hurt, but I got it. I accepted it. But then there you were this morning with your fucking face and shit.” You smirk against his soft hair on the top of his head. “And it's like everything I had locked inside myself...just came back out. If you leave again...I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it. So, don’t be all warm and touch me and shit if...if you are just gonna leave again.” 

“Mickey...” You press your hand against the back of his head and kiss his hair over and over. “Mickey, I wanna be where you are.” 

He shudders out a hot breath against your shirt. “Fuck, Ian.” 

You lift his chin with one finger and look at him. “I love you, Mickey Milkovich. And if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the rest of my life-” 

“Save the speech, you pussy.” He rolls his eyes at you, smirking. “I believe you. Of course, I believe you.” 

You finally, finally, press your lips to his and God it makes your chest ache in the best way. It makes your knees buckle and your skim hum and prickle with excitement. His lips feel and taste the same and you can smell the pasta sauce on his breath and his fingers are digging into your hips as the kiss deepens and you know, you just fucking know, that this is it. This is everything. 

“You want me to fuck you?” You whisper against his lips. He moans and literally just licks into your mouth. It’s filthy and hot and freeing. 

“Yeah, man. I want you in me. Been too long.” 

You growl and slide your hands under his shirt on his back and push him towards his bedroom. 

“How many guys have you been with since...” You ask between tongue filled kisses. He pulls back, stopping abruptly in the hallway. He just...looks at you. 

“Really?” You ask breathlessly. 

“You?” He asks after a few seconds. 

“Just Trevor.” 

He brings his bottom lip between his teeth. “He know where you are?” 

“He wouldn’t care. Broke up with me after the first suicide attempt.” 

“Christ.” Mickey shakes his head, rage flashing in his eyes. 

“I don’t blame him. I didn’t mutter a word for 4 months. I just screamed. A lot. Then the last came he came to visit me in the hospital he asked me if I was ‘ever gonna get over this’ meaning you dying. I told him to fuck off. Never saw him again. I think even before I thought you were dead; he knew you were it for me. He was on borrowed time. I eventually would have gone back to you.” 

Mickey takes in your words and you can practically see the range of emotions that flash behind his eyes. 

“You’re it, Mick. Always have been. Loved you since I was fifteen. I mean, how could there be anyone else?” 

“I know what you mean.” 

You smile and push him again toward the bedroom. “Let me show you exactly what I mean.” 

“Game on, Fire crotch.” 

*~*~*~* 

The clock on his nightstand says 10:37pm. You’ve been in this bed with him for nearly 2 hours and you still haven't had your dick inside him yet. He’s cum twice already. Once in your mouth after a long and drawn out blowjob where you told him to fuck your face and he happily obliged choking out your name over and over. And once with your tongue in his ass as he pushed back against your face and ripped the sheets off the corners of the bed. 

It was so fucking hot. 

And now you’ve been fingering him for about half an hour and he’s sweaty and covered in his own cum and whining and muttering and so blissed out he might actually pass out before you get inside him. 

“Fuck, I love you like this. Wrecked and needy.” You press your chest against his slick back and breathe against his ear. He moans and that alone could make you cum. “I was the last one inside you. I’m going to be the only person inside you from now on.” He shivers and grips the edge of the bare mattress. “You like that, huh? You only want my cock, isn't that right, Mick.” He pushes back against your fingers, tightening his hole around them. “Nuh, uh. You need to say it. Say it, Mick. Tell me.” 

“Only you, Ian.” He muffles into the mattress. “Fuck, please only you.” 

You remove your fingers probably a little too aggressively and he mewls and you watch as his hole flutters. Open and wet from lube, red and used. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

You drizzle more lube onto your dick; red and leaking and angry that it hasn’t been inside his ass yet. And you don’t wait. You’ve waited long enough. And he doesn’t need you to be slow. You’ve tortured him long enough. 

You slide in. One single hard thrust and your balls deep inside him. He screams; fingers clenching at the crumpled sheets. You stay still inside him, feeling him clench around him as he gets used to your size again. He turns his face so his cheek is resting on the mattress and he's visibly panting; his tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Shit, Mick. So tight. How are you always so tight?” 

“Been...a... while...” He pants. 

You know this is going to be over too soon. You’ve been working on him for hours, neglecting your own cock and you were ready to cum the second you had your mouth on his dick. You can already feel the tingle in your spine and the fullness of your balls ready to unload. 

You ease out, till just the tip is still inside him and spread his ass cheeks and watch as his hole just opens and closes around your length and girth. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of this. Of him. How he looks. Smells. Talks. Walks. His body. He consumes you. And he’s yours. He’s here. You’re here. With him. Safe. Without the fear of someone walking in on you. Hearing you. The fear of the cops finding you. 

You can be yourselves here. Together. Happy. 

You fuck him slow and hard. He grunts with each thrust. ‘Fuck’ and ‘Ian’ chanting out of his mouth. You want a third orgasm out of him but he looks way too fucked out already and you know you’ll have to save that challenge for another night. 

Because you can have that now. Other nights like this. 

You grab a handful of his hair when your close and bring him up against your chest. You wrap your other arm around his torso and keep him upright as you fuck up into him and he’s like Jell-O in your arms. His cock is half hard and you slide your hand down his sweaty chest and take it in your hand. He hisses through his teeth and leans his head back against your shoulder. 

“I know. I know. Just ride it out. Fuck, Mick. I love you. I love you so fucking much.” You feel his cock swell in your hand and maybe, just maybe you’ll get a third out of him tonight. You rub your finger over his tip and he bucks into your hand as you chase his ass with your cock. 

“You gonna cum again, Mick? Please? One more. Let me feel you cum in my hand. Please?” 

He whimpers and you pump his dick as you fuck into him. He’s practically sitting in your lap and at this point your just rutting inside him as you jerk him off and its fucking heaven. You never want to be anywhere else but here with him. 

His breathing becomes more erratic and his cock gets ridged and you know he’s close. “Come on. Let me feel it.” 

He pants and shudders and you can feel the second he starts to cum; his dick pulsing in your hand and only a few drops spill out onto your fingers but he’s convulsing and shivering like it's his first orgasm ever. The feel of his cum in your hand sends you over the edge and you fill him up for the first time in almost 3 years. He moans when he feels it and his mouth is on your jaw and then your mouth and it's all tongue and breathing against lips and there are tears on his cheeks and maybe it's ridiculous and cheesy and maybe even weird but you lick them off his cheek. 

“Don't.” You whisper. Don’t cry. Don’t think this is the last time. Don’t think about the past. Don’t think this isn't what I want. Don’t put your walls back up. Don’t shut me out. 

Mickey sniffles and wipes his eyes. “Fuck man, why do you gotta turn me into such a fucking girl when I’m around you?” 

You laugh and hug him close to your body. You kiss his neck and shoulder and face over and over for a long time. 

“It’s just the beginning, Mick.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, tough guy.” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

**4 years later:**

“Heya, Peggy.” 

“Hey, Ian! How was work today?” The bright smile makes you smile as you sit at your regular stool at the counter. 

“Not bad. Had to take Mrs. Walker to the hospital again. She just does not understand that at 92 you cannot clean your own gutters.” 

Peggy laughs and sets your bags of food down in front of you. “How’s that husband of yours doing? I haven't seen him in weeks.” 

“He’s okay. Had the flu for almost a week, but insisted he didn’t. Today was his first day back at work.” 

“That man does not know how to just relax.” 

“Kinda like Mrs. Walker.” You smile at her taking the bags in your hands. 

“Exactly. Well, give him my love and tell him not to be a stranger. I put an extra piece of cheesecake in there for him.” Peggy winks at you and you touch her arm gently. 

“Thanks, Peggy. Will do.” 

The door jingles on your exit and you start up the sidewalk into the small neighborhood where you live. It’s a 3-block walk and it’s a cool night with the snow on top of the mountains in the distance and you don’t think you will ever get over how beautiful and peaceful it is here. 

You try and visit back home when you can and the only person from your family who has been here is Lip but it was only once because even though Mickey is in witness protection and it's been 6 years and you don’t think anyone in the cartel has any idea where he is, you still need to be careful. It's something you talked about, in great detail, once the haze of days of sex wore off and you both had to settle and realize what this meant if you were really staying. 

It took all the Gallagher's by surprise that Mickey was indeed, alive. Mickey at first didn’t want you telling them; the less people who knew the better. The rule was Mickey wasn’t allowed to have anyone from his old life know anything about what had happened. You were one thing. You could easily pass you off as some dude he met in town, but the more people from your life that traipsed through the town the more red flags could go up. The FBI and DEA are still keeping tabs on Mickey, checking in, making sure he isn't getting into trouble and just living a normal life like he promised he would. 

They didn’t give him any shit when he told them 2 years ago, he was getting married. You both were scared they would have to do a background check on you but Mickey thinks after a while he was just another name in a long list of people they made disappear and they just didn't care anymore. 

You got hooked up with a job pretty quickly in town. A small ambulance company that coincides with the small police station in town. When you applied there were only 2 other EMT’s, one of which was in their 60’s and with your already in place training, it was a no brainer. Fuck, there are only 6 cops in town. 

It took a while to get used to the quiet. To not have the sounds of the south side outside your window. No sirens and people yelling and gunshots. At night as you lie in bed with Mickey, windows open, you just hear...silence. Some crickets. The wind blowing. It was a lot to get used to. But now you don’t think you could live without it. You feel like you can breathe out here. The air is so clean and you and Mickey have learned how to Ski and snowboard and your meds have been working without any hiccups for years now. 

To which you had asked your therapist if maybe it was the environment that you were living in that could have contributed to the bi polar episodes. She said that maybe, sometimes, living surrounded by the evidence of past trauma everyday sometimes makes it hard to really escape or forget it. 

But you finally did. 

Escape. 

You didn’t forget though. You never will. It's what brought you here. 

You wouldn’t be here without it. 

You open the front door, its unlocked because in this town there really is no need to lock anything up. Doors. Windows. Cars. 

Emotions. 

He’s coming out of the bedroom, pulling a tank top down over his torso and padding barefoot in a loose pair of sweatpants and you have to just stop at stare at him for a minute. 

“What?” He mumbles and grabs the bags of food from your hand. He kissses you quickly and eyes as you as just...stare. 

“Fuck, you're beautiful.” 

“Cut that shit out.” 

Even after all this time; the safety and love and happiness; Mickey was still just...Mickey. And you love that are still some things about himself he hasn’t lost. 

He will always be south side. 

And it turns you on so fucking much. 

He’s unloading the food in its containers onto the counter but you can see the pink in his cheeks from your compliment. 

“Peggy gave you an extra piece of cheesecake. Said don’t be a stranger. Think she misses you.” You slide your arms around him from behind and kiss that spot right behind his ear and you he lets out a loud breath. Every. Fucking. Time. 

“Yeah, well, you’re her new favorite now, so.” 

“I don’t get extra cheesecake.” You smack his ass and grab forks from the drawer. 

“Oh, fuck off.” 

You smirk and stab your fork into your chicken Caesar salad as Mickey tries to hide his small smile as he maneuvers not one but two pieces of cheesecake around on the counter. 

“You’re never going to realize the affect you have on people, are you?” 

He frowns around his burger. “The fuck are you going on about now?” 

You hand him a napkin. He’s a freaking mess. 

“People just can't help falling in love with you. I mean look at me.” 

“I was a hole to stick your dick in.” 

You shrug. “Maybe at first, but it didn’t take long. Just like it didn’t take long for the people in this town.” 

Mickey wipes his mouth and chews on his burger. “Yeah, well. You too.” 

“Guess we’re irresistible.” 

“Guess so.” 

You both smile at each other and eat the rest of your food in comfortable silence. 

“Oh, hey, can you go clean Mrs. Walkers gutters this weekend?” You ask, washing your forks in the sink. 

“She fall again?” 

“Yeah, stubborn old lady.” 

Mickey sighs behind you. “Yeah, I’ll run over Saturday.” 

“Thanks, Mick.” You kiss his cheek and head toward the couch. There’s an old episode of Storage Wars on and you finally answer Lip’s text from this afternoon. 

Mickey plops down next to you minutes later, beer in hand. His hand goes instantly to your knee and you look at him. 

“The fuck you looking at?” He asks without taking his eyes off the TV screen. 

“A bitch slapping, shit talking, south side piece of trash.” 

He smirks and squeezes your knee. “And don’t you forget it.”


End file.
